


proportional derivatives

by tardigradeschool



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Mom Friend Bones, Mutual Pining, Vulcan Mind Melds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigradeschool/pseuds/tardigradeschool
Summary: Technically, the mind meld was Spock's idea, but that doesn't mean he isn't allowed to regret it. Or spend the next month avoiding Jim. It's illogical, but Spock has found most things concerning Jim are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> did not ask for this but here I am

Jim screws up his face as he thinks, every eye in the room on him. His spectacular black eye looks even worse under the fluorescents, his face a little too pale. The combination of Jim’s poor coloring and the medbay bed are slightly too reminiscent of Jim’s recent brush with death for Spock’s comfort.

“Jim?” McCoy prompts, and Jim shakes his head, blows out a breath. 

“There’s nothing,” he says. “I can see it, I can picture it, I just can’t make sense of the numbers.”

“Well, that’d be the severe concussion,” McCoy says testily. “I told you, Jim, I told you it was too risky, told you it wasn’t worth it, but you just had to-”

Uhura, clearly sensing that this lecture is not going to end anytime soon, hastily interrupts. “So what do we do? They’ll catch anyone that we send back in and unless Jim magically remembers the bomb’s code, we have no plan to stop it.”

Jim’s mouth falls into a tight, unhappy line as he considers this. “Maybe I could-”

“No,” McCoy says immediately, and Jim turns to him, annoyed.

“Bones, you don’t even know what I was going to-”

“Your ideas are dumb enough when you’re not concussed and I-”

“Okay, now that’s unwarranted, I’m a decorated Starfleet captain-”

“Ha!”

“ _ And _ I’m  _ your _ captain, I’m pretty sure I could court martial you for insubordination-”

“You don’t even know?” 

“I don’t appreciate-”

Spock steps forward before Jim can finish his sentence, raising his voice to a sufficient volume to be heard over their bickering. “I believe I may have a solution.”

Jim sighs, waves his hand. “Go ahead, Spock.”

Beside him, McCoy scoffs. “He’s acting captain, Jim, he doesn’t need your permission.”

Without breaking his glare at McCoy, Jim repeats, “ _ Go ahead, Spock. _ ”

“Very well,” Spock says. “Have either of you heard of a mind meld?” McCoy shakes his head, and Jim looks thoughtful. “No? Perhaps Uhura should explain.”

“It’s a telepathic link between two individuals,” Uhura says. “It’s a Vulcan thing, although I believe it would be possible between a Vulcan and a non-Vulcan… oh.”

“Exactly,” Spock says, nodding at her. 

“So, a telepathic link with me,” Jim says. “To find the code.”

“Is it dangerous?” McCoy says, and Jim, who is facing away from him, rolls his eyes. 

Spock ignores him, addressing McCoy. “There is some chance with any meld, but it is highly unlikely that Jim or I would suffer any permanent damage. At worst, we might have headaches, or perhaps feel momentarily uncertain of which memories belonged to us. The concussion may make it a little more difficult than it would be otherwise. But this should be relatively non-invasive, and Jim does not have the telepathic abilities necessary to injure me. No offense meant, Jim.”

“None taken,” Jim says. 

“I would, of course, not even consider this without your authorization. It is rather…” Spock almost says  _ intimate _ , then imagines the face Jim would make and corrects to: “… personal.” He also does not say that he barely feels comfortable melding with Jim, and if it had been another of the crew, he might not have even brought up the possibility. The only other person would possibly be Uhura, although their romantic relationship ended years ago, and it has been (not unbearably, but) sufficiently awkward since. 

“You have my consent,” Jim says easily. “Some captain I’d be if I wasn’t willing to get a little chummy with my first officer to save the crew. Bones, thoughts?”

“I’m not crazy about it,” McCoy admits. “But I’m also not crazy about all of us being blown to bits.”

“Me neither,” Jim agrees. “Uhura, can you think of any objections?”

“None of substance, Captain.”

“Thank you. Spock, proceed.”

“So how…” McCoy trails off as Spock steps up to the bed Jim is sitting on, Jim’s knees bracketing his legs. Jim tilts his head up, smiling slightly. Trying to conceal his hesitation, Spock places his hands on Jim’s face, attempting to avoid touching the black eye. He doesn’t quite succeed, because Jim does wince a little, but his smile doesn’t fade completely. 

“Why, hello, Mr. Spock,” Jim says. “Anything I should be doing?”

“Just close your eyes and relax,” Spock says. Jim doesn’t quite conceal a snort.

“That’s what she…” His voice tapers off, and as everything fades away McCoy’s corresponding sigh lingers in Spock’s ears. 

 

-there’s a man yelling-

        -the taste of blood-

    -what may or may not be a woman reaching sexual climax-

                 -food after too long-

   -cold cold shower too cold it’s  _ cold _ -

-something Spock recognizes: the smell of the blankets at the Academy; they used a very specific brand of soap and for years after Jim would pass that aisle at stores and take a deep breath and remember what it felt like to not be alone-

-a newly lost tooth, sharp and precious in Jim’s small hand-

-frustration- 

    -at his mother-

      -his father-

         -the world-

-Bones laughing, blurry-drunk and dizzy-

 

Images are beginning to resolve. Spock feels off-balance. He feels like he’s evaporating. He has never melded with a non-Vulcan before, especially not with one with a concussion, especially not with… well,  _ Jim _ . Spock feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, punch-drunk; he did not think it would hit him this hard. It takes him a moment to organize his thoughts, reassess his plan; after a moment of breathless uncertainty he returns to his task. With more control, he begins to sift through memories with more care. 

 

-Jim is six when he gets in his first real fight-

       -Jim is eight when he first tries to run away-

       -he makes it twenty miles on a bus before they find him-

-Jim is twelve and  _ angry _ -

       -fifteen and angry-

                    -nineteen and angry-

-twenty-five and _ trying _ -

 

Spock is almost there when something stops him dead. He can see his own face blurring behind the glass, can feel the excruciating numbness rippling through Jim’s body, and yes, he remembers it, remembers it a little too well, but it’s not unexpected; what is, what’s inexplicable is the image superimposed next it to it:  _ Jim’s own  _ face behind a glass panel, different but the same. Spock feels the grief again, like it was yesterday, except it doesn’t feel like his own. 

Jim couldn’t have seen himself. Jim especially couldn’t have seen this image of himself, someone Spock can barely recognize as his captain. It’s impossible, yet for some reason Jim- and therefore Spock- knows it to be true. 

There’s more there, once Spock is paying attention: memories upon hazy memories of Jim’s own face, much older, different, but still Jim. Years of affection and respect, pain and loyalty. Those emotions don’t feel like Jim’s; they’re echoed in an unfamiliar way, but they’re unmistakably foreign.

With Spock’s lack of concentration, the meld is beginning to fall apart, and Spock, realizing this, releases the memories. They fade away beneath the other, clearer ones, barely visible. Spock pushes them away, devotes his attention fully to finding the code.

It isn’t hard, once he’s paying attention. The memory is colored with pain from Jim’s head injury, and seems to almost glow among the others. Spock glances over the code, resists the urge to return and examine Jim’s mysterious extra memories, and rises up. 

 

The world is tilting as Spock opens his eyes. It’s only Uhura grabbing his arm and steadying him that stops him from toppling over completely. Jim looks even more disoriented, blinking slowly at the room. McCoy is at Jim’s side. He’s holding onto Jim’s shoulder and scowling at the world at large. 

“Spock,” he barks. “What’s happening?”

“All expected, Doctor,” Spock manages, although he had not realized the extent to which Jim’s concussion would affect him; the borrowed nausea is… substantial. “We should both recover shortly. I have the code, if one of you-”

Uhura grabs a clipboard off of a bed, ignoring McCoy’s protests, and scribbles down the numbers that Spock recites. “Get that down to engineering, Lieutenant,” Spock says, and she nods and turns on her heel.

After a moment, McCoy says gruffly, “Alright, Spock, I think that’s enough,” and Spock belatedly realizes that he’s listing to the side again as McCoy manhandles him into the bed beside Jim’s.

“Quite unnecessary,” Spock begins to say, when Jim waves a tired hand.

“It’s better to just submit to it,” Jim says. “Indulge him, you know.”

“If you weren’t injured, Jim, I’d hit you,” McCoy says, and Jim chuckles, leans back on his elbows. He’s clearly exhausted, and McCoy, who is somewhat aggressively throwing a blanket over him, says as much: “Go to sleep, Jim.”

Maybe it speaks to the reach of his injuries that Jim doesn’t argue, just pretends to scoff and then, with obvious relief, lets his head fall back and turns over. 

“You too,” McCoy says, pointing accusingly at Spock.

Spock shakes his head. “As acting captain, it’s my responsibility to remain-” Just then, Scotty’s voice comes over the speakers, triumphant. 

“Bomb successfully defused, people!” he says, mouth slightly too close to the microphone and completely disregarding announcement guidelines, and half of a whoop comes through in the background before he shuts the connection off.

“There y’are.” McCoy looks as though he’d quite like to smother Spock with the pillow he’s holding; instead, he shoves it behind Spock’s ramrod straight back and says, “No responsibilities. Sleep. Or meditate, or whatever you people do.”

“Bones, I assure you, I am quite alright,” Spock says, even as McCoy begins to semi-successfully prod him into lying down. “There’s no need to-”

McCoy clicks the light off. “Yes, there is,” he says. “You look like you’re about to drop.” He pauses, then: “Bones? Mr. Spock, you’ve never called me that before.”

Distantly, Spock recognizes the oddity in his address of the doctor, but finds himself suddenly too weary to even contemplate forming a response. He briefly considers trying to meditate, but before he reaches a decision, he falls asleep. 

 

Waking is unpleasant. Spock squints at the room, pushing himself up slowly. Jim, who is putting on his shoes, looks up. “You awake? Damn, I was being so quiet.”

“No need, Captain,” Spock says. He’s already gotten over twice as much sleep as he does on any other night, and he can only blame the aftereffects of the meld for his sloth. Jim, however, is looking notably better for the rest, and Spock can only be grateful- for the sake of the ship and the crew, of course- that Jim was provided such an opportunity. 

“You alright?” Jim asks. “You look funny.”

“Excuse me?” Spock says.

“I mean, you look a little odd. Last night too. Hope the old melon didn’t fuck you up too bad.” He taps his forehead. Spock tries to hide his moderate mystification. 

“By melon, I assume you’re referring to your head,” Spock says. “No, Jim, you are blameless. Although…”

“Although what?”

“I do have a few questions.” Jim looks apprehensive, so Spock adds, “Nothing too personal. A logistical query, if you will.”

“Shoot,” Jim says, shrugging.

“During the meld,” Spock says, folding his hands together. “I saw some memories of yours that were, well… quite inexplicable, logically. It was as though you were looking at yourself, only-”

“Older?” Jim finishes. “Hey, yeah, I wondered if you would see those. They aren’t mine, they’re Spock Prime’s. He kinda left them hanging around when he was explaining what he was doing here. He did a mind meld too, I guess. I think it was an accident, maybe.”

“He… left them?” Spock is mildly horrified. The meld last night had been somewhat hasty, to be sure, but he had, at the very least, been careful not to tamper with Jim’s memories. Ethically, it was unimaginable. For a version of himself, albeit a very different one, to have abided by other rules, well. Spock was not especially fond of the concept. 

“Sure,” Jim says. “They’re not really  _ there _ . I can’t exactly  _ remember  _ them. I just get deja vu a lot. Like with memories from when you’re a little kid, you know?”

Spock does not know. Spock has an impeccable memory. He’s still caught on the idea of Jim living with some of Spock Prime’s memories. “How many are there? Could you estimate?”

“Memories? Uh… hundreds? A lot. Through years, I think. We spent a lot of time together in the alternate world.” 

“I see.” Spock is feeling an emotion, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s having trouble identifying just what emotion it is. However, he knows he does not like it.

“Hey,” Jim leans back against one of the counters. “Don’t make that face.”

“I am not making a face,” Spock says unconvincingly.

“Yes, you are,” Jim says. “Look, I know what you’re thinking-” Spock highly doubts this, as he himself is not entirely certain. “-and it wasn’t like I just let any old Vulcan go adventuring through my brain. I would have told you I had done a meld before if I had known that’s what it was.”

“You will excuse me, Captain.” Spock isn’t certain why he needs to leave, but he finds that removing himself is, if not the most logical thing to do, the best thing to do for the sake of maintaining sanity.

“Very well, Commander,” Jim says, seeming bemused. “Although Bones may attempt to disembowel you for leaving without his permission.”

“I find myself more than capable of withstanding Bones’s- that is, the doctor’s wrath.” Heat is rising in Spock’s cheeks. There is no reason behind it; Jim would not have known how to shield, or even been capable of it, and so temporary accidental adoption of a nickname is a perfectly logical, and therefore, not embarrassing side effect. That does not stop Spock from speeding up very slightly as he exits the room. He needs to meditate.

 

Jim seems to exhibit no such side effects, at least not as far as Spock can tell. It’s illogical to be annoyed by this imbalance, and so he distracts himself from it, and from Jim. He would love to blame his decreased attention span on the captain too, but unfortunately he suspects that it’s all him; he has found himself distracted multiple times, a few of them  _ while on duty _ , thinking about Jim’s possession of Spock Prime’s memories. There’s no reason for him to be as fixated on it as he is, except.

Except that the memory transfer occurred before he and Jim could be peacefully in the same room together, let alone friends. The memories were shared, yes, but as far as Spock could tell, so were the emotions behind them.

Which means that it’s quite likely any affection Jim has for him is due to the sway of Spock Prime’s memories, rather than by any merit of Spock’s.

He finds this thought singularly distressing for causes he is not quite certain of. The distress leads to a great amount of attempted mediation and a small amount of successful meditation, which leaves Spock with very little free time. Normally Spock would not care; he prefers solitude as a general rule, except it means that the nearly year-long streak he and Jim had had of chess games at least three times a week has been quite abruptly broken.

 

Jim corners him the next week after Spock’s shift ends. Spock does not especially enjoy being cornered. “Captain,” he says, “Is there a problem?”

“You tell me,” Jim says. “I don’t want to pry, but it really seems like you’ve been staying away. Avoiding everyone. I don’t like to think of myself as a clingy guy, so just tell me that you’re alright.”

“I am alright,” Spock says stiltedly.

Jim makes a face. “C’mon, Spock,” he says. “Don’t give me that.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Captain,” Spock says. “I am perfectly well.”

Jim’s eyebrows are raised, but he nods. “Okay,” he says, a little cautiously. “Want to play chess? We left it in the middle of a game, and I had to fight Sulu off to keep him from stealing the board.”

Normally, Spock would make some comment about the weakened state Sulu would have had to be in for Jim to be able to beat him. Jim would laugh, and they would proceed on to the game. For reasons Spock cannot explain, this is not normally. “I have other matters to attend to,” he says, and turns. He cannot see Jim as he walks down the corridor, but he can feel his eyes upon him. 

 

The effort he puts into avoiding conversation with Jim is nonsensical. The second week, it could have been written off to a busy schedule, but by the third week Spock is certain Jim has noticed. Jim seems concerned, but doesn’t approach him again. Things are awkward on the bridge; Jim is quiet where he’s normally jovial, and without his general good mood, the whole room seems stuffy and silent. 

Spock has been trying to meditate more, with little success. He finds himself looking forward to the time he spends alone in the lab, although even that seems more tedious than usual. However, it’s the only was he has of occupying himself productively without working with Jim, and he prefers boredom to his irrational distress. He wishes he could articulate the difference between the disappointment he might have had at his realizations when he first became friends with Jim and the moderate despondency he feels now. Jim's manner with him has changed very little since the beginning of their friendship, and Spock suspects, with suitable shame, that the disparity lies in the evolution of his own feelings towards Jim over the years. He has not considered it in such plain terms before; previously they manifested simply in willingness to trust, in deliberate lack of attention whenever Jim took an interest in someone. Now, it's considerably harder to ignore, and Spock finds that any inclination he might have had to explain himself to Jim has been quite buried under the instinct to isolate himself. 

 

It’s at the beginning of the fourth week since the mind meld that McCoy finds him there. Just for the sake of it, Spock lets him hover at the door for nearly thirty seconds before he says, “Doctor, do come in, I can hear you breathing from all the way over here.”

“Knew those ears had to be good for something,” McCoy retorts and Spock sighs.

“Please make your point or exit.”

“Right,” McCoy says. He makes his way over to where Spock is standing, arms crossed over his chest. “What’ve you done to Jim?”

“Done?” Spock asks. “You must be mistaken. I have had little time to do anything to anyone in the past few weeks.” This is not quite a lie, since he is allowed to use his leisure time however he wishes, and if he chooses to spend it alone, he is perfectly entitled to it.

“That’s just it,” McCoy says. “Just what work could you possibly be doing that’s taking up so much time?”

“I don’t believe that’s your concern.”

“No need to get snippy,” McCoy says. “Look, I ask out of concern. It’s just that no one on this ship has had anything to do these past few weeks, except you.” He hesitates. “I know you said the meld went smoothly, and Jim certainly doesn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects, but it’s the only thing I can think of that may have caused all…” He gestures at Spock. Spock lifts his chin.  “… this.”

“Contrary to your seeming beliefs,” Spock says, unnecessarily irritated by McCoy’s correct assumption. “You are not aware of every event that takes place in my life. Please vacate the lab, B-” He catches himself, but it’s a close thing, and he is unsure if McCoy notices. “Doctor,” he finishes.

In the following silence, Spock goes back to his work, ignoring McCoy’s gaze upon him. Eventually, McCoy does leave. Spock feels nothing at the victory, because it would be illogical. 


	2. Chapter 2

In the middle of the fourth week after the meld, they get orders from Starfleet to investigate a planet. Inhabited, they says, but the aliens are non-threatening, and contact has already been made, several years ago. They are told to investigate the agriculture; the planet has a type of fast-growing, corn-like grain that could be effective in fighting famine. 

Since the mission is largely one of communication, Jim announces that he’ll be beaming down himself, along with two yeomen and a biologist. “And Mr. Spock,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “The people of this planet have had dealings with Vulcans in the past; perhaps they’ll be more eager to trade if they see we are not entirely unfamiliar.”

The mission is supposed to be brief; they should be back to the ship before the day is over. 

Or so Starfleet tells them.

 

What actually happens before the day is over is that they find themselves in the middle of a brutal civil war that Starfleet was completely unaware of. One of the yeoman and the biologist die, impaled by the startlingly efficacious spears carried by both sides. Jim is attempting to comfort the remaining yeoman, who is clearly trying very hard not to have a panic attack. 

“Just breathe,” Jim advises, “Breathe with me, yeoman. That’s it. Mr. Spock and I are going to do our best to get you out of here alive.”

“I appreciate it, sir,” the kid wheezes, and Jim shoots Spock an almost-amused look before he remembers that they aren’t talking. He looks quickly back to the yeoman. 

“Captain,” Spock says. “They’re coming.” Jim can hear the footsteps too, though it’s impossible to tell which side they belong to. It doesn’t really matter.

“On your feet,” Jim says to the yeoman, but it doesn’t matter because they’re surrounded. 

 

By the time Jim comes to, Yeoman Moaveni has fallen asleep, back to the wall, head lolling back. Jim scans the small, dirty room quickly, lingering on the yeoman’s outline. He himself is half propped up on Spock’s lap, a position that is not uncomfortable physically but is in every other way. It’s dark enough that when he sees the blood on Spock’s hands, it’s impossible to tell if it’s red or green. Jim feels an inappropriate amount of relief when he realizes it’s his. In the miserable haze of waking up, he hadn’t noticed the pulse of pain above his left hipbone. 

Spock’s voice is lower than normal both in volume and timbre when he speaks. “Captain, I assessed the wounds you sustained during our capture and have concluded they are not immediately life threatening, so long as pressure is maintained and a medic arrives within the next six hours.”

“What about you? The yeoman?” Jim croaks. 

“Unharmed,” Spock assures him.

Jim attempts to sit up, but when Spock increases the pressure on his stomach he abandons the effort quickly. “Weapons?”

“Confiscated.”

“Communicators?”

“Destroyed.”

Jim lets his head fall back against Spock’s leg. “Awesome,” he breathes. “Stuck on an alien world, injured, in prison, with a traumatized yeoman and a first officer who hates me.” He laughs minutely, bitterly. “I should start anticipating these things at some point.”

“Captain,” Spock says. Jim turns his head up. The shadows are playing with the disgruntled lines of Spock’s face.  “I…” He seems to take a moment to organize his words, and they come out a little uneven. “I do not hate you.”

Jim tries to smile. “Coulda fooled me,” he says. “Look, Spock, it’s okay, we can just shut up and wait for rescue.”

“It is illogical to think that I hate you,” Spock says. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“Alright,” Jim says, “Give me a logical reason for the last couple weeks. One that doesn’t involve you getting so freaked out by your little trip into my mind that you can’t ever make eye contact with me again.” It had taken him a little while to reach that conclusion, a few days of going to sit with Spock during meals only to find Spock vanishing back to his room, but he’s sure Spock would be impressed with the solid rationale.

“I am sorry to have caused you distress,” Spock says quietly. “The fault is entirely mine, however. I cannot provide you a logical reason for my actions, because they were not actions driven by logic.”

“Mr. Spock,” Jim begins, but Spock shakes his head.

“I regret greatly that I have caused you pain. In truth, I cannot justify my actions, or inactions, even to myself. They were based on insecurity and fear rather than reason, and for that I am ashamed.”

Jim blinks up at him. “Fear?”

“Indeed, Captain, I… I.” Spock purses his lips. “I admit that the cause for my isolation was the meld, though not in the way you seem to believe. Spock Prime had no right to insert anything into your memories, especially when said things may have influenced your judgement.”

“What?” Jim says. 

“Captain, do not pretend my line of reasoning is ridiculous. Humans make choices based on a set of memories and beliefs you accumulate over time. Spock Prime added to your set of memories, and therefore he affected your judgement.”

Jim squints up at him. “Mr. Spock, exactly which decisions have I made that cause you to suspect involvement by Spock Prime? I’ve made mistakes, certainly, but I find it hard to believe that you would take issue in any choice I made while under the influence of an alternate version of you.”

Spock shakes his head. “Not the point, Captain.”

“Then what is your point?”

“My point is, it was morally wrong of Spock Prime to do so.”

“Okay,” Jim says, “Okay? That doesn’t explain anything.”

“Perhaps not.” Spock looks away. Even from upside down, he looks exhausted. “The memories held emotions,” he says. “Emotions between us, or the alternate versions of us. Spock Prime’s feelings bleeding over into your own is not only possible but probable. Therefore, our friendship is likely a result of emotional transfer rather than… genuine affection.” 

Spock is clearly trying to sound detached, but he’s doing a piss-poor job of it and Jesus, Jim can’t stop himself: he starts laughing. It hurts like a bitch because of the stab wound, but he can’t stop, can barely breathe, until he’s nearly crying from equal parts slight hysteria and substantial pain.

“ _ Captain _ ,” Spock says, clearly surprised and offended, and probably alarmed, from the way he’s gripping Jim’s arm with the hand that isn’t, you know, holding Jim’s blood inside his body.

“Sorry,” Jim wheezes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I think you may be in shock,” Spock informs him.

“Probably,” Jim agrees. He tries to take a deep breath, barely stops himself from going off into another peal of laughter. He pats the side of Spock’s leg. “Of course I like you, you ass.” Spock tries to say something, but Jim cuts him off. “I can promise you, those friendship feelings? All me. _ I _ like spending time with you, not some Spock Prime remnant in my head.”

“I must admit, that’s good to hear,” Spock says. “But how can you possibly be sure?”

“Because the other you and the other me were fucking,” Jim says. “They were, like, married or something. That’s how I’m sure.” He expects Spock to say something witty. But Spock doesn’t say anything. 

In fact, Spock is silent for a long, long moment. “Spock Prime never relayed that to me.”

Jim shrugs as best he can. 

There’s another long silence. Jim, who has begun to feel moderately lightheaded from the blood loss, wonders if the conversation is over. Finally, right when Jim decides that a nap sounds really great, Spock says, almost inaudibly, “What if I were to say that my feelings, such as they are, mirrored those of our counterparts?”

Jim has to take a metaphorical step back from that one. Back the phone up and hold the truck, as it were. Jim made his peace with that ship sailing years ago, just around when Uhura and Spock split and Spock showed zero (0) interest in Jim. Well, he had gotten pretty drunk first, but in the wake of the hangover he had accepted it. He had packed up every unseemly thought, everything from mindless fantasies about long legs to daydreams about playing chess into his old age. Jim is excellent at compartmentalization. 

For a wild second, Jim thinks that he might have imagined Spock speaking, until Spock prompts, “Jim?” and he sounds so uncharacteristically nervous that Jim almost starts laughing again.

Instead, he reaches up, until he finds what he’s pretty sure is Spock’s cheek. “Spock, buddy,” he says. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“What does that m-” Spock starts. Jim finds Spock’s free hand and hooks his index and middle fingers across Spock’s. Spock stops. Oh yeah, Jim did his research years ago, back when Spock was with Uhura. Because of the whole touch telepathy thing, almost all Vulcan signs of affection are physical rather than vocal. Jim can work with that. 

“Think about it like this,” Jim says. “Instead of me borrowing Spock Prime’s feelings, maybe I just happen to share them. We are different people than they were; we can be different. Not that this is like, destiny or shit, just. A correlation between universes. Logically, similar variables produce similar results, right?”

Tentatively, Spock’s arms tighten around him. Jim sighs a little, settles into them. He’s going to pass out soon, he can tell. 

He can feel the vibrations of Spock’s voice in his chest when he speaks. “When you were injured,” Spock says. “I was… afraid. If you were Vulcan, the spear would have hit you in the heart.”

“I’m not Vulcan, though,” Jim points out drowsily. “That wasn’t very logical. Maybe you’re the one in shock.”

“Perhaps,” Spock concurs, “Though very little logic seems to apply when it comes to you.” When Jim doesn’t respond, he says, “Jim, you must remain awake.”

The sharp pain of Jim’s wound has faded considerably, and wrapped in Spock’s arms as he is, Jim cannot recall a time in recent memory when he was more comfortable. 

“ _ Jim _ ,” Spock says.

Jim mumbles something along the lines of  _ you can’t tell me what to do, I’m the captain _ , or, he tries to. 

 

Jim wakes up slowly. He’s forgotten to do something, but he can’t remember what. He feels oddly leaden, not just in the drugged-up way. He blinks at the ceiling.

“Christ, kid,” Bones says above him. “Calm down.”

Jim, though he’s loathe to do anything Bones tells him to, can’t help but relax at the sound of his voice. “Thank shit,” he says, and at the same second he notices why he couldn’t move half his body. “Oh, hey.”

“Don’t wake him up,” Bones says. He hands Jim a glass of water, which Jim carefully takes in his free hand. The other one is trapped under Spock, who is dead asleep beside him, head on Jim’s right shoulder, one arm wrapped around Jim’s middle, carefully positioned to not to rest on his bandage. He’s kind of heavy, but Jim is either too high or too gone on him to mind.

“I left for one second and he was like that when I came back.” Bones looks at Jim meaningfully. “I assume you two are talking again?”

“Something like that.” Jim looks down at Spock’s head. His hair is tousled, and without thinking, Jim runs a hand through it.

Bones picks up a hypo. “I have preventatives for Vulcan STDs,” he says, completely straightfaced, and when Jim winces, he adds, “Sexual health is not a  _ joke _ , Jim,” with so much feeling that Spock jerks awake.

“Captain-”

“Feel free to go back to sleep, Commander,” Jim says, maintaining eye contact with Bones, who looks sufficiently aggravated. 

Spock eyes Bones for a moment, then does just that. Jim lifts his hand from Spock’s head, flips Bones off with as much affection as he can manage, and follows. 


End file.
